A Perfect Life
by PandaPjays
Summary: Hilary lives a life others would kill for. She has everything anyone could hope for and knows it. But she can't quite shake the feeling that it isn't what she always wanted. TysonHilary


Mood piece full of moodiness. Inspired by **phoenixandtiger's** TysonHilary in her _500 Themes: Odd Pairings, Character Centrics_. Go read. It's awesome.

**Disclaimer:** Wish for but don't own.

**Pairing:** TysonHilary

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><p>She didn't know when she noticed it.<p>

But, when she did, it hit her in a resounding crash and made her almost stagger. She was unhappy. She was unhappy and she didn't even know why.

She'd done everything right. She'd been the good girl in school. She'd gotten good grades and become a good person. And, like you would expect, she'd met someone. The good girl and the class clown. It was a cliché. It was what you'd expect.

It was easy.

She'd fallen into the relationship. It hadn't shocked anyone when they'd become an item. When they'd announced it to their friends there hadn't been any shock, any outrage. There had only been knowing smiles and a few 'at lasts'.

He had simply smiled his goofy smile and grabbed her hand roughly. There wasn't anything subtle or graceful about him. And that had suited her. She wasn't exactly a subtle person either. She enjoyed his brashness and his easy companionship. He was the most generous person she'd ever met.

But she was still unhappy.

She knew that she shouldn't be. There was nothing wrong with her life. It was textbook. Perfect. She'd achieved all that she was supposed to achieve without even trying. Tyson was the person she would spend the rest of her life with. She'd wake up every morning and look over to see him sprawled over the majority of the bed. She'd jostle with him for the first shot at the coffee machine and their toothbrushes would live next to each other. He'd run late for work and slap together a sandwich (can't forget the food) before running out the door, pressing a rough kiss to her cheek. She'd roll her eyes and reach into the fridge to grab the lunch she'd prepared for herself the night before. She'd tried making him lunch alongside hers but it would always be forgotten. She couldn't find it within herself to resent him for that. So she'd grab her solitary lunch and leave the house, locking the door behind herself.

She would always be the first home. He didn't know how to refuse people so he would forever be running late. Clients would ask for extra help and he'd glance at the clock, bite his lip and shrug ruefully before agreeing. She wouldn't mind. It gave her some time to relax after work. She'd pour herself a glass of wine and set about getting dinner together.

He didn't know how to cook. He always said that he much preferred the end result of cooking and, after having tasted his attempts at the task, she was happy to provide that end result. When he would come home, he'd slam the door carelessly behind him and come find her in the kitchen. He'd wrap his arms around her stomach and press his face into the side of her neck.

She'd half-heartedly threaten to attack him with the knife she was holding if he didn't let her finish and he'd laugh, telling her that he'd hate to get between her and his dinner. Always the same jokes, always the same tone of voice, teasing and gentle.

After dinner they'd curl up together in front of the television. They'd watch something meaningless, commenting whenever something particularly stupid or amazing happened on screen. The actual programs didn't matter. It was simply an excuse to cuddle up together, him lying behind her with a possessive arm draped over her. She'd lie there enveloped in his scent and enjoy his warmth, tucking her perpetually freezing feet in between his always toasty legs. He'd complain and she'd tell him that it was his duty. He'd respond by kissing her and they'd lapse back into silence and the comfort of each other's company.

When they grew tired, they'd extract themselves from the couch. She'd stand first and offer her hand to him. He'd try to pull her back down but would eventually give in, pretending that she'd pulled him up too hard and crashing into her as he rose. He'd use the opportunity to cop a feel and she'd smile.

In bed sometimes they'd simply sleep, sharing warmth and breathing each other's breath. Other times he'd grab her at the doorway of their bedroom and give her an insistent kiss. His kisses were as rough and as brash as he was and his hands were clumsy and calloused. But, as with everything about him, he was honest and generous.

And afterwards, when he'd fallen into a deep sleep, she'd look down at him and wonder how she got here. She'd think about the jokes they made every day and the way whenever he looked at her his lips would quirk up slightly. She'd think about the way their life was perfect and expected and she'd wonder.

Why was she so unhappy? This was the course of her life and she knew that many others would kill for it. It was simple and it was free of conflict. She'd known exactly how it was going to play out back when they'd had their first argument at school. Even back then she'd known how her life would play out. They'd fall in love, move in together, get married, one day she'd give him a child and then they would grow old together until they finally abandoned each other in death. It was set in stone. Unchangeable. And why would she want to change? She was living the dream.

She thought that sometimes he could sense it. Sometimes when he looked at her at night she almost could see the questions forming in his eyes 'Why aren't you content?' 'Aren't I good enough for you?' 'When did you realise?' and finally 'Will you hurt me?'.

That last one only came into his eyes on her bad nights. On the nights when she couldn't disappear into her perfect life and something within her rebelled. On those nights they would go through their routine, telling the same jokes and sharing each other's lives as normal. But she'd be... off. There was something wrong in her voice. A flat tone that he could detect; It was a result of living with her for so long. He understood what that dullness meant and his eyes showed it.

She never deviated from the routine but still his eyes questioned her. 'Will you hurt me? Is this the night?'

Sometimes she wanted to answer. 'Yes. Now is the time'. Sometimes she wanted to say it only to put him out of his misery. Sometimes she wanted to let him know that she would hurt him now— if only so his eyes would stop asking her the question she wouldn't stop asking herself.

Why are you so unhappy?

But she knew that if she closed her eyes and leant against him, smelling that deeply familiar scent and allowing herself to be swallowed by her perfect life the feeling of unhappiness would pass. She knew that as surely as she knew that with each time she did that, a small part of her disappeared. It didn't die. Nothing so dramatic as that. But it did go away.

One day he would work up the courage to ask her what his eyes had been asking her for years. When she'd been putting away his clothes a few days ago she'd found a ring hidden in his sock draw. The beautiful diamonds had glinted like tears captured in a moment of pure sadness. Because that was what that ring would be. A trap, tethering her to this perfect life that made her so unhappy.

And on the day he presented the ring to her she'd have a choice to make. She'd either accept the ring with her customary exuberance and he'd throw his arms around her and they'd kiss. They'd then live their lives as planned until she either disappeared completely or she decided not to disappear anymore. On that day he'd ask her why and she'd have no answer. Or, she could refuse him and watch as confusion and pain washed over his face. She could watch as she confirmed his worst fears. Yes, she would hurt him. And when he asked why she wouldn't have an answer for him.

But what if she left? Would that be any better? At least here, in this perfect life, there was something to disappear into. There was his scent and his warmth. There was the routine (that terrible routine) and the closeness of years of shared existence.

Outside there was a terrible blankness. There wasn't anything there that would welcome her and be glad she'd refused to disappear. There wasn't anything there that would say that she'd done the correct thing. Instead, they'd all wonder why and censure her when they realised there really hadn't been a reason. Tyson had done everything right and she... she had been unhappy.

So she smiled at him and traded friendly insults with him and cooked his meals and stored her toothbrush next to his. She kissed him and supported him and loved him in the only way she knew how. Because, perhaps, that was all there was. Because, perhaps, his happiness was more important than her vague feeling of discontent. Because, perhaps, the world wouldn't become a more terrible place if she disappeared into her perfect life.

And when he got down on one knee to ask her to continue their perfect life together she would say yes. She would continue down the perfect path, the cliché. She would be the good girl marrying the class clown. She would live every day with him in a harmony of their own creation. She would have his children and would watch them grow up. And one day they would part from each other forever and she would realise she had never been happier than right before she'd thought to be unhappy.

And on that day she would disappear.

The path was set. Perfection awaited.

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><p>Please tell me what you think<p> 


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